


pretty words for broken boys

by jflawless



Category: GOT7
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Foster Care, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-26 23:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2670164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jflawless/pseuds/jflawless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>i.</p><p>Jackson is unexpectedly removed from his third home of the year and returned to the big center where he shares a room with thirty other boys and all of them are older and meaner than he is. The loss of his foster mom and older sister and own room leave a hole in his heart that makes tears burn in his eyes. He doesn’t let them fall because Andrew has the bunk above him and last time he cried Andrew said, “Why don’t I give you a you a reason?” and then he pounded a row of bruises across Jackson’s chest until he learned to hold it in.</p><p>Jackson is seven years old.</p><p>This is nothing new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pretty words for broken boys

i.

Jackson is unexpectedly removed from his third home of the year and returned to the big center where he shares a room with thirty other boys and all of them are older and meaner than he is. The loss of his foster mom and older sister and own room leave a hole in his heart that makes tears burn in his eyes. He doesn’t let them fall because Andrew has the bunk above him and last time he cried Andrew said, “Why don’t I give you a reason?” and then he pounded a row of bruises across Jackson’s chest until he learned to hold it in.

Jackson is seven years old.

This is nothing new.

ii.

When Jackson is nine, Andrew stops by his bunk with a small backpack and a big smile to give him one last 'friendly' punch to the gut, a final goodbye. He boasts to every boy that will listen that his momma got sober and she's comin' to get him and they're gonna go back to his big ol' house just outside the city and she's gonna buy him _pizza_.

It's the first time Jackson's seen someone get taken back by a biological parent and it sparks a curiosity that refuses to burn out.

Once he's in the car with his social worker, on the way to his newest foster home, while she rambles excitedly about this one being  a sure thing, a permanent place, a family he'll keep for life, he asks.

"Will they take me to see my parents' graves?"

Jackson listens, smiling widely the whole time, as Ms. Homth explains in that same soft voice she uses when she comes to take him back from 'permanent homes' that they won't, because there aren't any graves to see.

Laughing, a bright, relieved sound that she's never once heard from one of her kids, Jackson thanks her.

As they pull into the driveway of his new home, he tells her that it's great news, maybe the best he's ever heard. For a moment, she's worried it's because he thinks they'll come for him, but he goes on to say he's happy that they're okay, somewhere out there, living well instead of buried with _bugs_. She's pleased, following the bouncing boy up the walkway, that she didn't have to lie to avoid giving him false hope.

The problem is, she did.

iii.

That home lasts for exactly three years, a personal record. Jackson doesn't doubt their love for him, despite their continued hesitance to formally adopt him, until the day they send him back.

Jackson leaves, their sorrowful words that would once seep deep into his heart and keep it beating strong instead smack into his raincoat and slide off quicker than the droplets falling from the sky while he shuffles down the drive, waiting for them too call out and ask him back, waiting for anyone in the world to want him to stay.

They don't, and the seedling of a thought, a short little 'no one does' sprouts deep in the back of Jackson's mind.

iv. 

Over the years that seedling grows and grows like a poisonous vine that slowly infects every piece of him, until it reaches his very core and Jackson becomes the weed himself. Never needed, never wanted, never kept, always sprouting up among beautiful gardens only to be pulled and tossed as soon as he's seen.

A stray vine eventually wraps itself around the buried idea that one day his parents will return for him, that it will all have been a mistake and they have been looking for him all those years and uproots it until Jackson is nothing but a teenage boy with thorns in his mind.

v.

The stem grows down his spine and extends through his veins and the vines fight valiantly to reach his core, to spread through him so completely he will never be able to pull them out, but they cannot find purchase on the case of gold that protects his kind heart.

vi.

The roots are so deeply entrenched within him, strengthened by the abuse of a bad home or kids who allowed their weeds to turn them angry and hateful, that it may be impossible for him to ever remove them.

But every time Jackson wipes the tears of a crying boy, just as lost in the system as he's been since the day he was born, every time he helps a young girl off the ground and cleans her bleeding knees, the burning love in his heart turns another leaf to ash.

Jackson decides, when he is fourteen, that he will save every lonely child from ever allowing the vines to take over, that he will collect them all when they are young and he will nurture the flowers that exist inside all of them. He will grow a row of roses where he weeds out the pain of feeling unwanted in every single one of them.

vii.

The sound of sobbing startles Jackson awake just in time for him to hear the bed above his creaking.  He reaches out and catches Andrew's ankle.

"I got this one," he mumbles. Andrew's mom remained sober for roughly four months before he returned with a heart so full of hatred it started pumping acid to his veins.

He arrives at the offending bed only to hear three other boys offering harsh words, telling 'Mark' that he should get over it, get that shit out of here, none of them have parents, asshole, why does he get to fucking cry about it, why does he get to cry just because his family died, at least they wanted him, at least they didn't give him up, at least they didn't care so much about chasing highs that they forgot they even had a son.

The last pure part of Jackson, the one spot the venom has yet to touch, wonders how anyone could ever be so cruel.

The kids continue to sling abuse as Jackson forces his way onto Mark's bunk, one of them tossing in a quip about how no one has ever once wanted Jackson.

Silently, Jackson ignores them and pulls away the pillow that Mark has pressed over his face. Mark looks up at him with wide, wet eyes filled with a sadness that Jackson cannot imagine but wants desperately to chase away, snot smeared across his upper lip.

Jackson places himself between Mark and the rest of the room, as if just his back can shield the crying boy from the entire world. He cradles Mark's head against his chest, muffling the sobs in his shirt as he covers both of Mark's ears.

He holds Mark for hours, the tears that soak through the thin fabric of his hand-me down tee shirt cold against his chest. Jackson rocks lightly as sobs fade to sniffles fade to even breathing. He waits until Mark has been asleep for a full hour before he detangles himself and maneuvers the sleeping boy until his head is back on his pillow and he's completely covered by the old, small blankets people have donated to the home.

Before he returns to his own bed, he wipes away the last remaining wetness on Mark's cheeks with his sleeves and makes a silent promise to never allow the pain of loss to turn him as bitter as it has the rest of them. 

viii.

The boys straggle in a big pack to the nearby schools every weekday morning, and today Jackson is exhausted, at the end of the line.

A third of the group falls out to go left at the first crosswalk, heading towards the middle school, and another third turns left to scatter throughout town to skip class altogether, thinning out the pack into just eleven high school boys.

From his vantage point at the back, Jackson can see a boy up towards the middle with his head down being knocked between two more boys purposefully bumping into him every five steps. He sees Andrew's speed increase, and knows he is about to induct their new brother into his world of loathing.

Gathering up all the minimal energy he has, Jackson jogs past Andrew and shoves himself into the space between Kyle and Mark, catching the blow from Kyle's shoulder instead. He throws his arm over Mark's shoulder, carefully holding his balance and in turn keeping Mark from falling into Tyler.

Mark doesn't speak, no hello, no thank you, no who-the-hell-are-you-get-your-hands-off-me. He doesn't even look up, just continues to watch his feet in silence, but Jackson feels a slight tug on the hem of his shirt and looks down to see Mark's fingers curled loosely around the flannel.

Jackson uses his grasp on Mark's upper arm to slow them down long enough to fall out of step with the other two boys and glances back at Andrew, slowly shaking his head in effort to call him off.

Andrew throws him a nasty scowl in return but Jackson watches long enough to see him turn down the nearest side street, a silent promise to leave Mark alone for at least his first day at a new school.

Even once the danger has passed, Mark stays tucked into Jackson's side and allows him to lead them into the school, Jackson rambling aimlessly about the layout and the teachers and how he should eat a lot at lunch because school food isn't great but it's still a lot better than the dinner they're served at the home.

Jackson takes Mark into the building and keeps him close until they arrive in front of the main office. After giving Mark's shoulder one more quick, hopefully comforting squeeze, he drops his arm and turns so their face to face.

"The home would have already talked to the school, so, just go in and they'll give you supplies and a schedule and tell you where to go," Jackson explains as he picks and prods at Mark's shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles he created on their way in, "and all my classes are upstairs in the three hundred hallway, if you need any help," Jackson moves on to toy with Mark's fringe, patting down a few stray hairs the way he's seen mothers do for their sons a thousand times, "I have lunch fifth period. If you do too, I sit at the table next to the garbage cans."

Mark watches him blankly, showing no reaction to his words or his fretting hands, but Jackson doesn't take it to heart. He adjusts Mark's shirt collar, tells him to try and have a good first day, and turns to jog to his first class just as the bell begins to ring.

ix.

Mark stares after the unexpectedly kind boy, his hand still reaching out where it had just been holding on to his button down, in awe.

A lot of things just happened. A lot of things had happened in the past two weeks and Mark wasn't processing any of them and he wasn't really sure who that boy was or why he was treating Mark so kindly when nothing else in the world was but the one thing Mark did know was that there was a strange feeling of being safe soothing his broken heart, something he never expected to experience beyond the frequent dreams where his parents were still alive.

x.

Mark wakes up from a terrifyingly realistic nightmare that has him shaking and sweating and already in tears.

His first thought is his parents, and when he remembers that they are _gone_ , panic rolls through his stomach and pours enough fuel onto his fear to light it into a full blown anxiety attack.

His second thought is the nameless boy who has been following him around for two weeks, quietly protecting him since the day he arrived.

He's _always_ there, somehow, but Mark isn't complaining. He seems to know everything Mark needs before Mark even does, there with a friendly smile or soft touch, placing himself between Mark and anything that wants to hurt him. Words, fists, painful memories; the boy blocks it all out.

He talks - a lot - but never about himself.  He talks about Mark sometimes, complimenting his homework when they sit together in a bathroom stall, the only quiet place in the home to work. Sometimes, he compliments his outfits. Most of the time, he talks about how strong Mark is, and once, he tells him he's proud of him.

Mark doesn't know why it meant so much to hear, especially from this random boy who should mean nothing to him, who's opinion of him should irrelevant, but Mark had to his hide face in his textbook to keep his wide, happy smile to himself.

He talks about Mark, and school, and the home, and occasionally the boys their share their room with. The way he speaks of them is interesting, to Mark. It's careful. He never speaks badly of them, despite Mark thinking he probably has reason to, but he chooses words so mindfully, skirting around back stories and high lighting any minor good quality in every boy.

The one thing the boy will not talk about is himself, and Mark hasn't been able to ask. 

All Mark knows is that this boy, this star, shines so brightly he's filling the dark spots left by loss with a brilliant light that Mark never wants to go out.

xi.

Jackson is frightened awake when an unknown hand grabs roughly at his wrist.

Immediately, he pulls his arms up to shield his face, to protect himself.

No blows come. All Jackson can hear is heavy, stuttered breathing, and when he lowers his hands he's surprised to see it's Mark, kneeling at the side of his bed.

Jackson sits up, leaning over edge of his mattress to whisper, "What do you need?"

Mark says nothing, not that Jackson really expects him too, he never has before, but Jackson watches him pull the collar of his shirt over his face.

One of Mark's hand is pressing the fabric of his tee against his nose, but the other reaches out blindly until it grasps Jackson's hand.

He runs his thumb back and forth across Mark's knuckles while the older boy gets his breathing under control, using his own shirt to clean the tears and snot off his face, this time.

Still holding his hand, Mark climbs up into Jackson's bed once his panic has eased. He burrows in close, the short twin bed overcrowded with two teenage boys, and Jackson adjusts to accommodate him.

Mark smiles before he falls asleep, a small, weak thing, just for Jackson.  It makes pride rip through his chest.

Inside him twigs snap and vines tear and the roots, entrenched deep within him, begin to tremble in fear of that smile.

xii.

Mark starts seeking out Jackson, instead of just waiting for Jackson to come swooping in to save him.

He hasn’t spoken in a long time, not since the day his parents died, but he wants to talk to Jackson.

He wants to talk to Jackson for a while, tries to build up the courage and remember how to make the words, how to say _thank you_ and _you're amazing_ and _you mean a lot to me_ and _I'm glad you came into my life_ but every time he thinks he might have it, Jackson begins to speak. Everything he wants to say melts away and leaves Mark with the fear that he will never be able to reciprocate Jackson's quiet, comforting kindness.

Eventually, sitting shoulder to shoulder with textbooks spread across their outstretched legs, Mark manages. It's not anything he really wants to say, but, it's _something._

"What's your name?"

 “Jackson Wang.”

Mark falls back into silence, remembering the whispered stories about a boy never wanted, never kept, never loved.  He remembers the first night, when Jackson came to him and surrounded him in warmth and comfort and tried to block out all the abuse of angry boys who hated Mark for ever having a family, and the boys that told him Jackson should be the angriest of all. The thought spurs a rush of admiration in Mark, all for this boy who could be so jaded, so angry, so full of hate, just like everyone else in this god forsaken home. Mark's so in awe he doesn't even hear Jackson ask, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Mark silently corrects himself. Jackson isn't just a shining star, he's the goddamn sun.

xiii.

Jackson grabs Andrew roughly, wrapping both arms completely around his torso.  He catches an elbow to the gut as Andrew tries to throw another punch at his victim, a sophomore who left the home when Jackson was fourteen to a family that gave him his own room and good food and brand new clothes and officially adopted him the second they legally could. Ryan is laid out flat, nose bloodied with a deep, dark bruise already blooming around his left eye.  Jackson struggles to keep his hold on Andrew, a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier, as he continues to fight against the grasp to keep attacking.

"You're almost eighteen," Jackson yells, throwing his entire weight backwards so he falls, dragging Andrew down with him. When his ass hits the ground, he throws his legs around Andrew's waist, but loosens the grip he has with his arms, letting Andrew struggle and elbow him and scream until it's all out of his system, "They're not gonna send you to fucking juvie this time."

Ryan takes his cue and scrambles to his feet, tossing his backpack back over his shoulder and running full speed out of the parking lot, nearly knocking Mark over in his haste to get away from the angry teen. The fight leaves Andrew, somewhere during the time Jackson is distracted watching Mark fidget nervously with a shocked, fearful expression on his face. Andrew screams a final time, loud and long and broken and in the end, it dissolves into heavy sobs that Jackson can feel against his chest as Andrew sinks back into the hold, stealing Jackson’s attention away from the silent observer.

Andrew blubbers about Ryan and his mom being a crack whore and all the other horrible things he said and Jackson knows he should hate Andrew.  He knows he should hate him with all the venom circulating his veins, seeping out from the weeds growing in the cracks of his broken heart.  He remembers the beatings and cruelty when he was scared and alone, knowing nothing but the pain of a fist in his stomach, again and again, delivered by the boy crying in his arms.  He knows he should hate. He should hate Andrew as much as Andrew hates the rest of the world, but, deep inside Jackson’s mind there is a little boy locked away, crying out for mommy in the same way the big boy pressed against his chest is crying out for mommy and Jackson cannot find it in him to hate when he knows how bad it hurts. So, instead, Jackson runs gentle fingers through matted hair and wipes tears as they roll down Andrew’s scarred cheeks, whispering soft words of comfort and love.

xiv.

Mark isn’t sure what he thinks as he watches Jackson offer the same protection he gives Mark to the boy he’s often protecting Mark from, but it makes his heart ache in a strangely pleasant way. He does know, when Jackson turns to him and tells him to hurry home, because he’ll be in trouble if he misses curfew, and that it doesn’t matter if he gets in trouble when Mark hesitates and fidgets nervously, that Jackson Wang is the kindest boy in the universe. 

xv.

When Mark and Jackson are getting ready to part for their morning classes, held on opposite ends of the school, Mark finally builds the courage to say all the things he's wanted since he first met Jackson. He catches Jackson's sleeve just before he turns, stealing back his attention, and takes a deep breath. Steeling himself, he takes one last second to run through his mental list of things he wants to say; you're amazing, I'm so thankful, I appreciate everything you've done for me, you're my best friend, I'm so happy we met, even if it was under terrible circumstances.

Mark's been thinking over the entire speech he wants to make to Jackson, filled to the brim with feeling and appreciation and compliments, and when the moment finally comes, he opens his mouth and says, "Glad you're amazing, thanks I met you."

He immediately releases Jackson's shirt and turns to walk down the hallway, a fierce blush staining his cheeks pink after he sees the mix of shock and confusion that covers Jackson's face as soon as the stupid jumble of words came out of his mouth. Jackson yells for him to wait, but Mark is too embarrassed and probably never going to speak ever again so he keeps walking.

Just before he gets to the stairs to head up to his first period, Jackson shouts after him, "I'm glad I met you too!"

xvi.

Mark comes to Jackson, hiding out in the handicap stall to work on homework in peace and stands in the door way.

"Did you wanna work with me?" Jackson asks, after a while, but Mark shakes his head no.

"Do you wanna sit down?" Mark, again, shakes his head no, but when Jackson looks up from a math problem Mark is watching him silently from across the stall. Mark refuses the offer of a snack when Jackson holds out his small bag of crackers, and doesn't even smile when Jackson jokingly offers to give him a swirlie.

Jackson is done with his math and science and halfway through the assigned English reading when Mark finally crosses the stall to come and shove himself into Jackson's space, forcing his head under Jackson's arm and stretching out on the tile floor with his head pillowed in Jackson's lap.

"I'm sad about my parents," he mumbles, and then he starts crying, and Jackson lets Mark sob into his thigh while silently petting his head with one hand and holding his novel in the other. Mark eventually wears himself out, and when Jackson looks down after finishing the last chapter, he finds that Mark has fallen asleep in his lap.  He's struck, very suddenly, by how beautiful this boy is. Even with tears staining his cheeks and his hair sticking up everywhere from Jackson's touch, Jackson thinks he might be the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

He notices it more, later, when Mark is awake and smiling and laughing, expression clear of pain and showing only joy, that he's the prettiest boy in the universe, but in that moment it's truly striking. Jackson looks at the sad, beautiful boy asleep in his arms and thinks they all must have looked like that at some point. They all must have looked innocent and broken and lovely before pain drew venomous vines around their hearts and squeezed the love from them, and there, he vows to weed out the grief and grow sunflowers in the empty spaces left in Mark by the loss of his family. Even if it's too late for him, there's still time to save Mark.

xvii.

Mark is nervous when he arrives home from school and Jackson isn't there. Jackson had promised he was just missing classes to pack up his things and meet his potential foster family and that he would be home to say goodbye to Mark. But, Jackson's gone, his bed stripped and his small pile of belongings removed completely from their neat row underneath his bunk.  He can hear a woman apologizing just outside the bedroom and thinks it might be Jackson's new family, but we he comes sliding through the doorway to catch him before he goes, he sees nothing but a young, Jackson-less couple leaving with a social worker he can't recognize from the back. 

He can feel the rush of panic, the same rush of panic that had him panting and crying the first night when he woke up and realized he wasn't in his bedroom in his house because it wasn't his house anymore because his parents had died and the state had seized it, and him. He feels the same rush of panic that brought Jackson to him at the idea of Jackson leaving him and it sounds oddly poetic in Mark's mind but he doesn't have time to think about the parallelism because he's pretty sure he's going to throw up and he has to get to the bathroom immediately.

He almost doesn't notice it, the soft whimpering and heavy breathing in the other stall because he's too busy hyperventilating in his own. He doesn't throw up, thankfully, but he does see a familiar sight when he sinks down to his hands and knees trying to catch his breath and slow down his racing heart, telling himself that Jackson will come back to see him, that it's not the end, that Jackson loves him too and Jackson won't let this be the end.

Underneath the divider the separates his stall from the other, he sees Jackson's shoes, ratty and torn and bright fucking red, and when he lowers his face further he sees Jackson. He sees Jackson with a single, worn back pack, the same one he's had since he was four that his second family sent him back with, resewn and duct taped so much to keep it together you can't even see the picture of Spiderman that Jackson swears the bag began with. He sees Jackson with his single bag that holds all his belongings and tears on his face and mouth open as he chokes on sobs he's trying to keep quiet and Mark forgets all about his panic and slides under the divider to pulls Jackson into his lap. He holds Jackson and lets Jackson tears wet his shirt and covers the sounds of a broken hearted boy with his shoulder, the same way Jackson has done for him time and time again.

He runs his fingers through Jackson's hair and whispers that everything will be okay until Jackson starts to speak. He listens to Jackson ramble around his hiccups that they didn't want him, that he was too old, that he's never going to have a family again because none of them want him and now he's too old, that no one will ever want him, that no one will ever need him, that no one will ever love him. Mark remains silent, listening, until Jackson says that no one  loves him and then he whispers, "I do."

xviii.

Mark holds his hand and pulls him into the narrow space between the chain link fence and the shed in the small backyard area behind the foster home.  The heat of their entwined hands burns out the poison in Jackson's veins and for the first time in ten years he feels light and warm and wholesome.

Mark kisses him slow and soft. Mark kisses him once, then twice, then three times, four times, over and over. Mark's kisses are like weed killer, viciously attacking the vines grown tight around his heart, the weeds that maliciously took over the first time Jackson ever thought he would never be loved. Mark kisses his lips and his cheeks and his forehead, sneaking one whenever no one is looking. They hang around at the back of the pack on the way to school so they can hold hands.  Mark always finds his way to Jackson's side, pressing in close, a constant, comforting presence. He touches Jackson so casually, so easily.

Every squeeze of his knee, every brush of his hand, every kiss fills Jackson up with something sunny and sweet, drowning the weeds. Jackson can feel their roots clinging to his very being, whispering noxious words like 'useless' and 'alone' and 'unloved', telling him that Mark's a liar, that it's all fake, that no one wants him, never have, never will. Every time, gentle hands will cup his cheek and delicate lips will touch his forehead, yanking them out one by one.

xix.

It kind of sneaks up on Jackson, the fact that he's in love with Mark. He's loved Mark since the beginning, feeling protective, wanting to keep him safe and happy and healthy ever since the first night he crawled into his bed and held him until he fell asleep. That love is different, though. That's the love that Jackson feels for every boy in the foster home, for every orphaned child in the world, even Andrew. A quiet, understanding love that makes his heart ache with the fact that they're just like him and all feeling the same pain of abandonment that's weighed him down since he was nine years old.

The love Jackson develops for Mark is new and exciting. It spreads butterflies through his stomach that flutter around turning weeds to wildflowers.  It makes his heart beat faster, puts a wide smile on his face whenever he sees Mark, or hears Mark, or thinks of Mark, gives him the constant urge to hold Mark's hand or kiss his cheeks or huddle next to him or press their thighs together when they sit side by side. Instead of a cold ache, it's a warm comfort. It doesn't erase the pain of being left alone, having _someone_ , but it helps having a second set of hands carrying the weight of it.

xx.

It's a nice feeling, being in love, Jackson thinks, but it _scares_ him. Mark is a pillar of support beneath his shaking foundation. It's built slowly, stacked block by block with various actions and words, subtle comforts and protections, whispered honesty, cemented together with the trust Jackson has in Mark. Each foster family Jackson was ever placed in or chosen for constructed one just the same. And just like all the others, Jackson is always waiting for it to be knocked right back down.

xxi.

Mark leaves.

xxii.

Jackson is alone again.

xxiii.

When Mark turned eighteen he was all but tossed out on the streets, given nothing but his bag of hand me down clothes and a ride to a strangely shady looking help center. There, he was given a job paying minimum wage and set up with a single room apartment, paid for through the first year. It had two donated mattresses, a closet with three differently broken shelves, running water that sometimes got hot, an oven that only half worked, an unusually small fridge-freezer combo and a toilet with a handle that needed to be carefully jiggled in the right pattern to get it flushed.

Mark's an _adult_. He's working a day job doing simple work in a nearby office, living in a shitty apartment with a roommate that he doesn't see beyond the occasional sighting of a lump under the blanket or a dish in the sink he didn't dirty. He pays bills and goes grocery shopping and buys a pack of cigarettes he never smokes but uses as an excuse to stand outside the back door of the office on freezing afternoons hoping the frigid air will somehow slow his rapidly beating heart and sooth his panicked breathing. All it actually does it make his fingers ache and remind him that he needs to pick up gloves and a scarf.

Mark's an adult and he's all alone and Jackson, still technically a kid even though he'd probably be able to handle this whole thrust-into-the-real-world-and-expected-to-make-it-on-your-own deal a whole lot better than Mark, is all alone somewhere else. He's in a constant state of panic and he's not sure if it's because he's worried Jackson will hate him or won't be fairing well without him even though he was doing just as fine as he could be before Mark showed up or because Mark knows that he can't do all of this all by himself, but, either way, he hates it. It feels like he's drowning and he's not sure which way is the surface and the surrounding water is muffling his screams for help, filling his lungs with liquid instead of bringing aid. 

xiv.

The weeds are rooted so deeply in Jackson's chest, even deeper than before.  Mark had plucked them out where Jackson had never been strong enough and they only held on tighter where they grew in holes left by his absence. Thick vines wound so tightly around every vulnerable piece of Jackson - and there were far too many - and spread their poison into every last nook and cranny.  Still, after so many years, almost a decade, they were trying so valiantly to reach his heart and finally _ruin_ him, chipping away at the protective layers created by the fierce and unwavering love Jackson had to offer anyone that needed it.

On Mark's nineteenth birthday, Jackson has the thought that maybe Mark never actually intended to come back for him and a thorn penetrates his final layer, pushing its way into his heart at last. He is nothing but a once beautiful garden, overgrown by toxic weeds that killed all the flowers and left only a few browning, shriveled up petals.

xv.

Jackson is ready to leave the day he turns eighteen but, unlike those born in the summer, he's made to stay in the home long enough to graduate from the high school he's been attending his entire academic career, a rare feat for a foster boy. He's an adult long before they send him out with walking directions, at his request to go alone, to the help center for his lonely adult starter pack, but he still feels like a little boy waiting for mommy and daddy to take him home when he steps out into the warm summer air, the burden of abandonment heavier on his shoulders than the straps of his backpack, holding the weeks worth of clothes they allowed him to take and the few small items he managed to keep safe over the years after they were given to him by foster parents.

His own final days have done nothing but remind him of the uncomfortable silence that fell over him and his boyfriend in the weeks leading up to Mark's eighteenth birthday, both of them aware of the significance of the day but trying to ignore what it would mean for them.  The quiet goodbyes from kids only a year or two younger than Jackson who grew up with him or were taken care of by him are not given in words but conveyed by their constant hovering and nervous glances and occasionally, mumbled thank yous. They are the same quiet goodbyes Jackson and Mark shared everyday for two weeks, sans the desperate kisses and tight embraces.

The ones that do say goodbye out loud phrase it in such a way, just as Jackson did hiding in the same bathroom stall that holds so many other memories, good and bad, that it cannot be considered final. They say vague see you laters so it's never, goodbye, thank you for what you've done, move on, leave us, but always an unspoken request to meet again. It makes Jackson feel good, the fact that they all like him so much, the fact that they all want to be around him again when it's by choice and not by force, for as long as it takes for the guilt to set in that his echoed 'see you soons', promises to return, are only placatory.

He thinks of Mark's soft 'see you soon' and his final kiss, hot against the skin of Jackson's forehead and that fact that it's been two years and he's not even gotten confirmation that Mark is okay and he silently apologizes to every boy who asked him to come back when he knows he can't - or won't.

Finally, Jackson makes it outside, staring dumbly at the crudely drawn map of the town. He can't tell if the penned lines are smeared of if the tears in his eyes are just blurring his vision, but he freezes in the middle of the sidewalk, trying uselessly to focus on the fuzzy image well enough to see which direction he's supposed to walk first.

A shout grabs his attention, and when he looks up, his heart stops. Across the street, smiling and waving at him, is the most beautiful boy that Jackson has ever seen. Even more beautiful than Jackson remembers. Even more beautiful than Jackson could ever imagine him becoming. Something, _love_ , bursts through his chest so powerfully, it eradicates all the weeds and vines and noxious gas, dispelling all the thoughts of _useless_ and _unloved_ and _unwanted_ in a single heart beat.

Across the street, smiling and waving, is Mark.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  


 


End file.
